


PREQUEL: Promise

by Endoxos



Series: Glory In Gold [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Additional tags will be added with progress, Aged-Up Character(s), Angry Sex, Angst, Bottom Yuri Plisetsky, Break Up, Falling In Love, Fighting, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Character Injury, Reunion, Romance, Slice of Life, Struggles of an athlete, Tags apply to the entire series, Top Otabek Altin, Unrequited Love, early retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endoxos/pseuds/Endoxos
Summary: Yuri shuffled off the bed and walked up to face him with eyes reddened from tears, still yet to keep his breathing from hitching. “You had better gear up for Worlds, Beka…I’ll be on that podium and the rink will roar with the anthem of my country,” he eyed him with more intensity now, “Don’t expect me to be soft on you just because we’re friends now. Skate, Beka. Like you’ve never done before.”“I promise,” Otabek sat up, eyes darkened with determination.~*~Prequel to Glory In GoldAfter a shocking announcement of Kazakhstan’s figure skating hero’s early retirement, Yuri Plisetsky had not seen or even heard from him for years. Although it had not kept the Russian tiger from going on a winning roll, he is determined to get Otabek back into the competitive scene especially after an unexpected reunion that had barely answered the boy’s questions about Otabek Altin’s reason for the sudden early retirement.(Summary is for the entire series)





	1. Cheers

**Author's Note:**

> Thought it was important to ease you into the plot.  
> I promise you, it will all make sense.  
> This is my first AO3 work, forgive my novice ass for the weird formatting <(_ _)>

“Beka!” Yuri’s face beamed with satisfaction as he stood up from the bench after securing his guards onto the blades of his skates and lunged to Otabek, having little to no concern on the peering eyes surrounding the two. “That felt amazing!”

Otabek froze at the unexpected embrace and his heart pounded at the tickling breath the younger male was letting out as he panted into his neck. He was unsure how to react to this, hands hovering over the back of Yuri’s small waist, far too conscious of the exposed pale skin peeping through the boy’s top and the more than obvious up and down movement of Yuri’s chest against his.

It was the evening of the Gala exhibition in Barcelona to signify the end of the Grand Prix season. The gala was never meant for any serious play, but merely a show of entertainment by the GPF finalists, a performance of relaxation and enjoyment. Of course, that would have been the case if a _certain_ Japanese silver medalist had not decided to perform a surprise ice dance with a _certain_ Russian traitor with a growing balding crisis. The Russian Ice Tiger did not take kindly to that challenge and pulled Otabek into his steaming Madness Returns routine which may or may not have started a wave of shrieking fans bursting into a fit, furiously updating their social media networks with the hashtag “ _#otayuri_ ” on every close-up shot of the duo.

“Ahem,” a deep voice cleared his voice from the side and almost immediately, Otabek pulled away from the young Russian’s hold to see Viktor and Yuri standing beside them with a mixture of un-amusement and concern plastered on their faces, Yuri’s pink jacket hung tightly in Yuuri’s crossed arms.

Yuri’s eyebrow arched at the strength of Otabek’s push for a split second but brushed it off to face the two older skaters before them with a scowl. “What do you want, _show-offs_?”

Viktor’s mouth thinned into an amused grin as he looked back and forth between the Kazakh boy and the sour-faced blonde. “I suppose that would be our line.” Almost in response, Otabek averted his eyes in attempt to avoid Viktor’s piercing blue eyes.

“You were fantastic but Yurio!” Yuuri’s concerned frown grew as we continued, “you’re 16! Those pants are far too tight and low for you, not to mention that top of yours-“

Otabek watched Yuri’s emerald eyes roll dramatically as pale arms crossed the front of his chest. “You are _not_ my mother, Katsudon. And look who’s talking-”

“YURATCHKA!” a harsh angered voice of an elderly man echoed from afar. “DO NOT MOVE!”

Plisetsky’s scowl sank into a whined tire as he watched a familiar tall figure in a worn-out black mackintosh coat storming his way towards them, hair whitened probably from all the stress he built up watching the boy’s show. Sensing the impending hours of lecture, Viktor took the pink jacket from Yuuri’s hold and slipped it in Otabek’s arm with a firm pat on the back of his shoulder blade, proceeding to find their way out from the vicinity of Yakov’s approaching wrath. Before Otabek could muster up something to say, Yakov yelled out with as much fire, “ALTIN. YOU INCLUDED. YOU’RE AS GUILTY AS HE.”

The Kazakh froze in place and turned to Yuri who faced him with round pleading bright green-sea eyes begging for him to stay. Otabek had two clear options at that point; tap out and retreat but bear the consequence of Yuri’s sour brooding for the next month, _or_ face the Russian coach’s scolding and deafen his ears but be rewarded with Yuri’s warm smile and home-made piroshky. _Leaving sounds good_ , Otabek thought to himself but by the time the thought processed through, he found his feet grounded firmly to the floor and ears subconsciously bracing for the lecture.

**~*~**

“To us!”

Cheers of every language followed by the clinking of champagne glasses resonated the room in delight as skaters and their coaches drank in commemoration of the end of the Grand Prix season. The afterparty was as lively as the year before, excluding the sudden burst of dance battles lead by Katsuki Yuri of course. The ceiling was decorated with extravagant chandeliers, illuminating the room with a bright yellow shimmer. Cocktail tables scattered across the room with groups of people huddling into each, chatting up a storm.

 _Here again, I suppose_ , Otabek thought to himself, pulling at his tie to ease the tightness of his collar. He was incredibly uncomfortable that evening; the unfamiliar feeling of the smooth Italian fabric of his Giorgio Armani dress suit that hugged his figure, representatives of empire brands nudging him for a conversation every so often, and the thick air of formality that was suffocating his well hidden social anxiety.

He had thought that until he saw a blonde petite figure, hair pulled back as a French braid into a ponytail, shuffling through the crowd that surrounded him while aggressively pulling his bowtie loose. Otabek felt the sides of his lips tug at the sight of Yuri Plisetsky cursing in silent, trying to avoid every possible conversation as he made his way towards himself. The boy looked as distressed as he was, suffocating in a well fitted dark grey Gucci suit, far too distracted to notice how well it hung on his figure.

“For fucks sake, can’t a man breathe?” Yuri snapped as he let himself fall into the chair beside Otabek. “I can’t even take a piss in peace without some old fart trying to catch me for a drink and I’m not even allowed to!”

Otabek laughed silently. “A Russian who can’t drink?”

“It’s that Viktor’s doing. Yakov doesn’t want me developing his horrid habit. Says I might be even more destructible, drunk,” Yuri snarked. “I for one, hold my liquor well. At least, for the most of when my grandpa lets me.”

“I urge you to listen to your coach,” Otabek says in agreement to the coaches’ concern. His grandfather had probably mixed his drink with the lowest alcohol percentage just to silence the persistent child.

Yuri cocked an eyebrow and crossed his legs. “What about you? A religious thing?” he eyed the Kazakh’s mango juice in hand, clearly a non-alcoholic drink.

Otabek shrugged at this. “No. Family’s not that religious, except for my mother. I’m just not that good with that stuff.”

“Seriously?” the blonde lightened up to a laugh, pale cheeks flushed from laughter. “I’d pay good money to see you tipsy.”

“It really isn’t as amusing as you think it is,” he said bashfully, averting his eyes as Yuri leaned onto his arm rest closer to himself.

“You? Stoic-bear Altin? I’ve never seen you let loose!” sharp green eyes squinted to the boy’s warm smile.

Otabek’s heart leaped, feeling a familiar lump in his throat rise, and suddenly, he was far too conscious of his young friend’s delicate features; his long luscious blonde eyelashes, small plumped and soft pink lips wet from his drink, his delicate neck-

“Yuuuuurrrriiiiiiiiii, my brethren!” a heavy accented-voice called from afar, stunning both Otabek and Yuri. The young male’s expression dropped into an irritated scowl as he realised who was calling out for him. Viktor, with a glass of champagne in hand was practically “You did so well! Even though my Yuuri here stole the people’s hearts-“

A familiar Japanese breathless male ran up to catch the tipsy grey-haired Russian from behind and managed to cover the man’s mouth before Plisetsky could react to this. “Viktor! Please get a grip, it’s only been your second glass,” the man pleaded and turned to Yuri, apologising tirelessly. “I’m so sorry Yurio, he’s a bit of an effort to control when he’s like this.”

“An ass you mean? He’s not that much different with or without the champagne,” Yuri snapped, leaning back into his seat. “Hey, shit-face! Better be careful before the alcohol catches up with your body, not that age hasn’t already,” clearly pressing onto Nikiforov’s thinning hairline concern.

The boy earned an unsuspecting slap by the shoulder from a certain red-head who crept beside him, possibly scaring the living shit out of him, or that would be what Yuri would say. “Don’t be mean to the man, Yura. He’s in the middle of a midlife crisis, have some empathy.”

Viktor, being the dramatic hopeless Russian that he is, pulled the distressed man beside him and whined a cry into his shoulder. “Yuuuuurrrriiiiiii, I’m not old am I? How could I be”

A deep husky old voice yelled from the crowd, “Suck it up Vitya.”

And the whole hall roared in laughter whilst Katsuki was tasked to comfort the drunken Viktor. Babicheva and Chulanont were clutching their stomachs in ache from their laughing, shakily snapping photos of the scene, clearly struggling to compose themselves. It was a mess of a scene, Otabek would have been distracted by it if he was not grounded by the sight of Yuri’s flushed face and glassy eyes trying to hold back his laughter. At this moment, he was truly grateful that he took his bike for an afternoon drive across the Barcelona streets and stumbled across a distraught Plisetsky hiding from his _Angels_. Thankful that the stroke of luck led him to this boy.

**~*~**

For the rest of their stay in Barcelona, the group of skaters and occasionally along with their coaches (mainly to ensure no scandals break through to the media because of their reckless behaviour) spent their time sight-seeing along the local streets together. This year’s Grand Prix was a refreshing change of pace between tension, excitement, rush, disappointment, and achievements. Each agreed that it felt different, a good feel in every sense. They may not have drank through the nights in celebration for Yuuri and Viktor’s supposed “ _engagement_ ”, but they did in welcome to their feisty Russian kitten’s successful senior year debut. As much as Yuri hissed, fought, and thrown shade on them, he felt a new kind of warm welcoming sensation that made him unsure whether he was fine with it or not. Laughter echoed through the nights of their stay, sly remarks thrown left and right about who would next steal the young boy’s gold throne at the upcoming World Championships.

Otabek Altin was rarely ever present during those outings, finding them far too much for his socializing capacity. Even when he was, it was out of Yuri’s persistent persuasion, threatening him to not leave him alone with “those weirdos” as he calls them. He was never fond of group outings, not to this extent of closeness. People regarded him as lone wolf, he laughed at that thought but perhaps they were right. The boy had friends, yes however, not of the kind to share thoughts, experiences, let alone feelings with. Leroy of all people would know how hopeless he is in regards to his relationship with any living creature at that.

But there he was at the dining table, in Yuri Plisetsky’s hotel suite no less, sitting between two of the most prominent figures in the figure skating and ballet scene, each as unsure as the other for a conversation starter. Otabek looked back and forth between Lilia and Yakov wondering if this was an appropriate time for him to even be present. A hinted scent of burnt batter escaped into the dining area, followed by a whispered Russian curse. Otabek took this opportunity to excuse himself, pulling back his chair and headed down to the hazy kitchen.

“Fuck-“

A slender figure in a long-sleeved black sweater cursed over the stove at his dirtied sleeve, blonde locks tied to a messy bun, his cheeks flushed from the heat. Otabek was taken aback by Yuri’s tacky Christmas sweater, adorned with Christmas trees, stockings and reindeers, your classic holiday design. He barely noticed it before, distracted by the overwhelming air the Russian coaches were emitting. It did not match the boy’s image, Altin thought but something of this sight made it that much endearing.

“Beka-“ green eyes finally meeting his, shortly before Otabek walked up behind the boy, carefully pulling the sleeves up his unblemished pale slim arms. “Thanks. Could you uh help me with these? I need to clean up a little.”

Otabek’s eyes met the burnt rocks of Pirozhki (or at least, that was what it was supposed to be) floating in the pot of oil. He chuckled and earned a firm slap by his arm from Yuri who handed him the strainer to scoop up the rest of the disasters. “That sweater looks good on you.”

Tissues in hand, Yuri paused at the remark and laughed before wiping away the oil residue from his sleeve. “Don’t be an asshole. It looks tacky, I know. Grandpa bought it for me this year.”

“Well, it looks adorable on you.”

“Watch it Altin, I’ll hit you again,” Yuri warned faking a kick by the back of Otabek’s shin. “So, how’s Mr and Mrs _Sunshine_ over there?”

Otabek watched as the blonde pull himself up the wooden kitchen counter to sit beside him. He passed an empty plate to Yuri for him to hold the fresh batch that Otabek was about to fry. “Are they always like this? Even I can’t stand that amount of silence and that’s coming from me.”

“Tell me about it,” Yuri groaned. “They’re horrid at anything that remotely relates to conversation outside of skating…and really, their marriage. But well, I suppose you can’t win them all.”

“They’re great coaches, Yuri,” he uttered, carefully placing the last piece of raw Pirozhki into the oil, making sure it doesn’t hit Yuri. “You’re quite lucky. Having two power houses at your side.”

“Yeah, I know…” That silenced the young boy. Yuri looked down at his feet, fiddling at the sides of the plate where he was holding onto. The older boy did not mean for it to sound reprimanding but before he could muster up an apology, Yuri’s head shot up. “Shit- hold on, I should be the one frying those,” placing the plate aside and scrambling onto his feet, trying to snatch the sifter from Otabek’s hand.

Yuri ushered the boy out of the kitchen and finished frying up the remaining batch before plating the steaming Pirozhkis by the dining table, eventually breaking the silence.

“What took you so long?” the elder man whined, filling his glass with the can of Shandy he brought over for the chilly evening.

“I do not condone drinking in the presence of a child,” Lilia spoke unapprovingly as she sipped on her glass of water.

“I am not a child-“ Yuri strongly objected.

“We’re Russian, that’s what we do-“

Before either of them could snap at each other, Otabek intervened, clearing his throat. “Perhaps we should start digging in? The wait is over and I’m sure the cook is eager for us to eat.”

Yuri’s eyes beamed at this, the realising thought sinking in, of how many people were at his table sharing his favourite childhood dish. Otabek knew that his grandfather meant the world to the young boy, but this was the first time he’d seen his face lit up that much over a meal. “It’s my grandpa’s recipe. I’m not that good at it but I’ve helped him loads of times before, so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Well I’m sure it will be delightful,” Lilia said before Yuri plated the Pirozhki on each of their plates.

As an elated Yuri reached over to place one on Otabek’s plate, he mouthed a silent “thank you” with Otabek replying him with a hinted smile. The rest of the evening went by surprisingly well, with the gold medallist chatting away, poking fun at Viktor and his new-found interest in showing Katsuki off with their rings swearing the next championship would seal it all. As each hour passed, one by one left to catch up on adequate sleep before the Russians’ flight, scheduled for the following day.

“Good night, sir,” Otabek followed Yakov to the door, a little uncertain if it is appropriate for him to leave after Yuri’s own coach. “Have a safe flight tomorrow.”

Yakov nodded and looked back into the hotel and tapped the back of his hand by the centre of Otabek’s chest, “Don’t let the boy stay up too late, he’s a Grinch in the mornings and I’ll have to sit beside him the whole flight listening to him bitch about the children on board.”

 _Sounds like something he’d do_. Otabek chuckled and nodded in understanding, “Yes, sir.”

The elder man shifted his eyes, hesitant but stepped closer to the young man. “Yuri is a stubborn dumb boy, maybe as dumb as Vitya. He repels at least 80% of the people who approach him. So, consider yourself lucky, son,” he gripped Otabek’s arm firmly. “You’re a decent young man. Be patient with him. He doesn’t have that many friends…..Well, I’ll take my leave now, I’ll be seeing you at Worlds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire work was supposed to be a prequel chapter but decided to separate it since it would be too lengthy for the actual work. Updates should be up every Monday or Thursday unless stated otherwise.
> 
> Also, do let me know if you prefer a longer chapter!  
> Next update should be up on 14/12/17. Hopefully the final chapter before I move onto the major plot.


	2. Butt-dial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “OH MY GOD,” Otabek heard a sound shuffle. “Hello? Fuck- Potyaaaaaaa”
> 
> Otabek grinned before speaking up, “Trouble with your cat?”
> 
> Yuri cursed out from the phone. “Beka, sorry…fuck- my little shit-face here seemed to have accidentally pressed onto something and-…..yeah, sorry if I woke you up.”  
> ~*~  
> They begun with an accidental call instigated by a naughty little kitten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire work was supposed to be a prequel chapter but decided to separate it since it would be too lengthy for the actual work. Updates should be up every Monday or Thursday unless stated otherwise.

The skaters were now alone in the suite, somehow Yuri ending up on his bed, flat on his stomach and eyes glued to the TV that was broadcasting a playback of the highlights of this season’s Grand Prix. Otabek however, was by the sink, washing up the remaining dishes that Yuri had abandoned when he went for a quick washroom break. The two were still adjusting to their newfound friendship, awkwardly running through possible conversations in their minds yet unsure when to speak up. Sure, they spent some time sight-seeing together after the Gala, but they had never really spoken much of themselves.

Otabek looked down to his watch, certain that he should make his way back to his hotel before the snow inched thicker by the evening. He had his rented bike parked in the hotel, worried the guards would’ve closed it soon. Otabek placed the last plate on the drying rack and patted his hands dry by the sides of his jeans as he approached Yuri’s room.

_“Towering this season’s Grand Prix is the nation’s favourite rebellious gold medallist, Yuri Plisestsky, At the age of 16, he has made a splendid senior division debut, rivalling the ingenious Viktor Nikiforov.”_

“Ingenious my ass,” Yuri scoffed softly at the television. Slowly, Yuri’s reactions sank into silence, straying deeper and deeper into thought. Otabek watched him bury his face into the white pillow under the blonde’s hold before hearing a long sigh escape from the boy. “I still can’t believe it…I did it grandpa…I placed gold.”

Otabek leaned his back against the door frame, listening to the Russian boy’s soft sob, unfazed by the sudden meltdown. He knew Yuri had been holding onto these tears for far too long and deserved to unload, perhaps not quite how he expected. “Your grandfather will be proud to hear that.”

Yuri jolted in surprise at the unexpected remark and smothered his face into his pillow. “What the fuck, Beka! Jesus!” he mumbled angrily as his breathing hitched. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he apologized and straightened himself from the door frame. “But...you did well, Yuri. You were amazing.”

Yuri could have silenced him and by the struck of ego, told him he did not need to be told of that. He could have, but instead, he paused and uttered a whisper, “Thanks.”

“I’m not very good at comforting the sad, so if you want a handkerchief, I didn’t bring any,” Otabek said with the utmost concern and seriousness. “I’m sorry, Yuri.”

“Yura,” the boy uttered softly after clearing his throat. “You can call me Yura…since we’re uh…friends. Also, I’ll end you if you tell anyone I cried. I can’t believe I broke down in front of you. Fuck-”

_Friends_.

Otabek liked the idea, after all, he was the one who made the first move. Years of sharpening his form, flexibility, jumps, and programs, moulding him into the uncontrollable strength he had seen in a mere 9-year-old. A petite blonde boy of eyes a clear green ocean, yet a spark in them shook his uncertainties away when his eyes met him. Otabek knew then, this boy, _Yuri Plisetsky_ would grab the world by the gut and show them what a figure skater was capable of, a soldier on ice.

“You don’t talk much, do you,” Yuri sniffed as he sat up on his knees, wiping away his tears.

“I’ve been told,” Otabek said stoically.

Yuri shuffled off the bed and walked up to face him with eyes reddened from tears, still yet to keep his breathing from hitching. “You had better gear up for Worlds, Beka…I’ll be on that podium and the rink will roar with the anthem of my country,” he eyed him with more intensity now, “Don’t expect me to be soft on you just because we’re friends now. Skate, Beka. Like you’ve never done before.”

“I promise,” Otabek sat up, eyes darkened with determination.

“I might not give a rat’s ass about the rest. But you…I expect a lot from you, Beka. I’ve seen you at the Grand Prix,” Yuri inched closer letting Otabek tower him, his breathing calming down. “Show me what the hero of Kazakhstan can do.”

The Kazakh’s heart pounded against his chest in excitement. “You have my word. The next time we meet, I’ll be sure to make that at the podium.”

**~*~**

Yuri Plisestky’s words rang deep into Otabek’s heart all throughout his off-season training in his home country, Kazakhstan. He finally had something to look forward to at the upcoming World Figure Skating Championships, a challenge he dared not refuse. He had always been deemed a quiet competitor, his story told only in the programs he skates, but this time, a fire in him wanted to meet the Russian skater at his level, to have left the ice but the impression following him after.  It reflected in his routine; runs lengthened, weights increased, most of his time on ice focused on perfecting his jumps and increasing the difficulty. Everyone around him noticed the sudden change. Otabek had even dropped his offers to DJ at local clubs that entire off season, which was something shocking for him to do as he found this as a way to unbound from the stress of training.

“Otabek Altin, I don’t know what has gotten into you but whatever that change may be, keep at it,” a tall rough-looking man clapped loudly. Erzhan Bekbolatov, his coach glided towards him. “That footwork was a little shabby in the beginning but my boy, those jumps!”

Otabek hunched down in exhaustion and rested his hands on his knees, panting madly as he heard 3 other pairs of skates glided to their direction. He looked up to see two chestnut-coloured hair men with similar Caribbean features, and a brunette in sweat wear halted beside them.

“YA ALLAH! Was that a quadruple toe loop salchow combo?” the brunette beamed clutching onto the sour-faced male beside her. “Fantastic!”

“Yeah! That was solid!” the other boy, not to be confused with his brother, tapped him by Otabek’s shoulder. “Bring back gold for us!”

Otabek could not help but notice the bitter look on one of the Askaraev brother’s face, _Ravil_. The boy had always been a crabby person, a year older than himself, but subpar in terms of experience as the boy had gotten into the sport 3 years after Otabek did. Unlike Altin, the Askaraev boy was in the pair skating category along with Zlika, the brunette who was standing beside him. Pleasant girl, really. It was their first year qualifying in the World championships together, unfortunately, Ravil’s brother, Tahir would not be able to share their experience since he had not qualified through.

“He’s not the only one skating for the country, Tahir,” Ravil scoffed bitterly, earning a jerk by the elbow from his partner.

“We’ll do our best too, so watch out, Otabek, we’ll be stealing your spotlight!” Zlika laughed, sending a wink to Otabek.

“Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to speak to the two of you and our hero right here regarding your training timeslots at the rink,” the coach clasped his hands together, rubbing them warm. He watched Ravil’s expression turn into anger as he continued, “I’ve decided to switch your timeslots on Wednesdays and Thursdays so Otabek would have more time to work on his free program.”

“But coach!” the girl whined, Otabek not blaming them for the objection.

“We need more time! Zlika and I both need to work on our jumps respectively! You can’t just do that!” Ravil roared.

“Yes I can, and I will.”

Otabek stepped forward further objecting this, “Coach, I really don’t need it,”. He knew more than any other person how much rink time the pair cherished, watched them sneaked into the rink to train at wee-hours in the morning before he would arrive for his slot. “I can manage. They need it more than I.”

Ravil clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Shut up, _hero_. We don’t need your pity, and for the record, we need the slot because a choreograph between two individuals on ice is a technicality you will never understand.”

Now, even _he_ was annoyed.

“Look, _Ravil_ , I don’t want to fight,” Otabek gritting is teeth, keeping in his agitation as Tahir swiftly got between the two.

“And neither do I,” Erzhan intervened with a stronger tone this time, eyeing the skaters down. “I’ve seen your progress so far and made up my mind. If you want it changed, prove me wrong.”

For the most part, everyone within the Kazakh National Figure Skating Team would agree Erzhan Bekbolatov as being a gigantic bias _prick_ , as some of the skaters quoted it. He was the main reason why Ravil absolutely detested the “ _nation’s hero_ ” and Otabek could not blame him for it, although it did test his temper at times. This was not the first time they have had heated arguments over their timeslots, more than often, it was either Zlika or Tahir holding the enraged Ravil down. As much as Ravil hated it, everyone respected Otabek Altin and deep inside maybe so did he, he was not named the nation’s “hero” for nothing. He worked incredibly hard to be where he is, no one doubted his worth. His coach on the other hand, made no efforts to help his case with any of the _misunderstandings_.

**~*~**

Yuri Plisetsky and Otabek Altin did not engage in much conversation after leaving Barcelona, so the months that followed remained quiet. Both quite unsure of an appropriate way to contact each other or what they could possibly talk about and not seem so uncomfortable by their own awkward. Otabek however, took it upon himself to pour all of his focus into his training, which would sometimes intimidate the other skaters of the team whenever they caught him in the middle of his drills. Sure, he could have simply opened up his incredibly inactive Instagram account and look up on the boy’s updates but at the rate he was going, checking up on his daily routine was the least of his concerns.

That was what he thought until he received an unexpected phone call in the late hours of the night. Otabek had just came out from the showers after his routine jog through the neighbourhood, slipping into a fresh pair of boxers while letting his towel hang over his scruffy wet hair. With the sudden ringing of his phone, Otabek walked over lazily across the room to reach over for his phone that was blinking on his bed. He was expecting it to be one of his friends from the club he occasionally DJs at, to his amazement, _Yura_ was on the caller ID. They had exchanged phone numbers back in Barcelona, but really, neither did much with it.

“Hello?” he answered.

He listened carefully. It was silent for some time with the occasional sounds of mumbling and shifting across the room. Otabek thought it could have been an accidental butt-dial since of course, it was way past midnight and quite odd for Yuri to called rather than texted. He was about to put down the call until he heard a familiar enraged Russian yell from a distance, “ _POTYA! DON’T RUN AWAY FROM ME_.”

“ _You know you’re not supposed to be in grandpa’s room!_ ” the boy stomped closer and a loud shuffling noise came across the line. Otabek realised Yuri’s beloved cat was next to his phone, perhaps the culprit behind the call. “ _Don’t look at me like that. I’m the one who had to clean up the steaming lump of shit you left there._ ”

_Oh no_ , Otabek thought to himself, smiling as he sat himself down onto his bed.

“ _Grandpa was really angry you know. No, cuddling won’t work_ ,” Yuri laughed as Otabek assumed he laid down beside his guilty cat. Now, he could hear his voice much clearly. “ _You little shit-face. I know you’re sulking because I was at the rink all day. But shitting on dedushka’s favourite shirt? Really?_ ”

_Sounds like some I know,_ Otabek laughed out. He had seen pictures of the cream-coloured ball of fluff before, when he was uploading one of his photos from a DJ session on Instagram. Yuri had definitely rubbed off on the sly feline; she looks as indifferent as Yuri was to the world, and from what he could tell from Yuri’s conversation with Potya over the phone, she has quite the attitude as too.

“ _OH MY GOD_ ,” Otabek heard a sound shuffle. “ _Hello? Fuck- Potyaaaaaaa_ ”

Otabek grinned before speaking up, “Trouble with your cat?”

Yuri cursed out from the phone. “ _Beka, sorry…fuck- my little shit-face here seemed to have accidentally pressed onto something and-…..yeah, sorry if I woke you up.”_

“It’s fine, I just got out of the showers. So, there’s really not much to interrupt on.”

_“Isn’t it late for a bath there? It’s like…2am there isn’t it?”_

Otabek peeked to the clock hung on the wall just above his bed. “Around that. I was on a run. Tomorrow’s an off day. What about you?”

_“Oh…._ ” Yuri paused. “ _I was on Instagram…well, until I had to face a good lecture from my grandfather while cleaning up the surprise Potya here left for him.”_

“She must have been upset. Trained adult cats don’t usually do such a thing.”

_“She’s just being a princess,”_ Yuri said sarcastically while lightly stroking the feline. “ _I mean seriously, this is the third time she’s done this. Dedushka is LIVID.”_

And just like that, minutes turned into hours of Otabek listening carefully to Yuri’s vivid and very much uncensored use of vulgarities as he ranted and gushed about his beloved pet, Potya. It was endearing to listen especially when the Ice Tiger of Russia let down his walls for an adoring reason. He went on and on about the time when he found her by an old abandoned car, a runt left behind, and then of the time he recalled finding her vomiting by his door with chocolate smudged on her face. As much as Otabek tried his best to fight his tire, he slowly drifted into slumber. He truly did want to listen to Yuri gloat about his precious baby girl, well, accurately speaking, he just wanted to listen to his voice. He found comfort in hearing it after so long, perhaps too comfortable that it led him to sleep. Realising that there was no longer soft nods or responses from the end of the line, Yuri put down the call ever so quietly.

Otabek woke up the next morning and cursed at the realization that he had slept in on Yuri. It was unbelievably rude. He quickly reached for his phone to text the boy an apology which earned an eventual reply that read…

 

**Yuri Plisetsky**

 

 

> _Maybe next time we talk, you’ll keep awake when I don’t let my cat butt-dial you at a god-forsaken hour hahahaha_

 

Otabek smiled and tapped onto the contact details, swiftly changing the contact ID name. It read from Yuri Plisetsky to a short meaningful, Yura.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment to let me know what you think. Constructive criticisms are always welcome!  
> Do let me know if you prefer a longer chapter too!  
> 


	3. Trouble at The Rink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please proceed to exit the rink. The rink will be undergoing re-polishing for the next 20 minutes,” the announcer repeated, forcing Otabek to slow down his momentum by the exit.
> 
> As he glided closer towards the railing by the exit, his mind was still deep in thoughts of his skating, perhaps far too deep that as he turned his blades to make a sharp halt, he heard a piercing yell and before he could look over to see, his body collided with a strong solid force that threw him backwards.
> 
> “SHIT”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! So sorry about the late update. I've been rewriting this over and over until it grew into 2 chapters (I'm sorry, I should have self-discipline). Happy reading!

Following the incredibly embarrassing accidental call instigated by a _certain_ chubby cream coloured and not to mention, frustratingly guiltless Himalayan-Maine Coon mix, the socially awkward duo found themselves easing time into their somewhat hectic schedule (well, more so for Otabek than it was for Yuri for once) to occasionally check up on the other. Sometimes it would start from a light-hearted tease on the other’s IG photo which more than often turn into a lengthy chat about the silliest of topics. Of course, that did not mean Otabek was any more acquainted to the use of SNS than he was months before and for the most of their conversations, Yuri was the one who led them through. Otabek hardly spoke much of his life or thoughts of really any matter, he simply felt no need of such since he just enjoyed listening more so than he was speaking.

“Morning, Otabek!”

Otabek felt a thud by the centre of his back that shook his body forward, jerking his head behind in impulse. “Tahir,” his eyes met a light brown set of eyes windowed by the young man’s messy chestnut hair. “You’re early,” Otabek watched as he walked across to his locker, pulling out a pair of worn white figure skates and shook off his hoodie.

Tahir Askaraev, a fresh face in the international figure skating scene, competing solely in the men’s singles division and had just made his debut as an official senior Kazakh figure skating representative from Skate Canada International. He did not share the same heated personality as his brother, however, blood seemed to run deep between the two as their form and skating shared a cunning similarity. Like his brother, he did not share the same lengthen experience as Otabek did and on the ice, he was more _refreshing_ than he was considered as a serious competitor which was why the Kazakh committee had agreed for only one representative to skate the World Figure Skating Championships that year.

“Well yeah! I was on my routine run and came straight here,” Tahir smiled, lifting his shirt over his head and grabbed a hanger from his locker. “Completely forgot coach shifted your schedules around. I was expecting to see my brother here hahaha. Well, saves me the trouble of listening to his nagging.”

“About your brother, I-“

“Save it,” the boy interjected. “Everyone knows coach is uptight about well, everything. It’s not your fault so relax.”

Otabek pulled on the laces of the remaining skates on his feet to tighten it to firm fit and tied them off into a repeated bow. “Your brother seems adamant on it being mine.”

“He holds everything against you. Like, even the weather! It’s hilarious to be honest,” Tahir laughed as he pulled down his newly changed turtle-neck shirt.

Before Otabek could muster a reply, his phone vibrated against the cold metal bench beside him, it lit up as the notification read a text from a certain Russian boy. He looked back at the young man before him who was busy changing into a new attire, making it clear that their conversation had ended. With that, Otabek picked up his phone, unlocking the screen to read through the text with what little time he had, considering his session starts in a few minutes.

 

> **Yura**
> 
> _Fuck my life._

A small smile tugged on Altin’s mouth as he scrolled down to the attached photo Yuri had sent him. It was a photo he took of himself in a full-length mirror, his slim figure dressed in a tight turtle neck leotard and matching black tights that hug the petite shape of his legs, and all covered in a white powdery substance. The only clear thing visible for Otabek to see was the upset piercing green eyes glaring down at his cat that was wrapping its tail around Yuri’s right leg, rubbing affectionately against its master.

> **Otabek Altin  
>  ** _Exciting morning?_
> 
> **Yura  
>  ** _Very._
> 
> **Otabek Altin  
>  ** _How’s your day so far?_
> 
> **Yura  
>  ** _Ridiculous. Lilia has a whole’s day worth routine I have to perfect and now I’m late. She’s going to skin me, I swear. What about you? How’s life?_
> 
> **Otabek Altin  
>  ** _A little sour. Rink mate’s an ass as usual. Probably more hateful than you are with Viktor._
> 
> **Yura**  
>  _Hey! Not my fault he’s a hopeless jerk.  
>  Also, you calling someone an ass says a lot. Want me to jump him?_
> 
> **Otabek Altin  
>  ** _No need to. He is an ass but even I would spare him from your wrath._
> 
> **Yura  
>  ** _Ha ha, very funny, Beka. Anyways, talk to you later. I’m reaching the ballet studio soon. Bye!_
> 
> **Otabek Altin  
>  ** _Sure. Take care._

The Kazakh was not particularly invested in his new-found friendship any more than his schedule would allow for. It was just a warm comfort of a feeling knowing that he would be out training and occasionally visiting his physiotherapist from dawn to dusk, yet was still welcomed to Yuri’s short daily rants in the form of texts. He was more than grateful that he was not asked for any more than this and was even more appreciative that the boy did not take offence to his lack of emotion in his replies. According to his _questionable_ friends of his evening activities, Otabek Altin was even more indifferent on text than he was in person. It was even harder to respond to him as they could never really recognize the tone to put context in his texts.

**~*~**

Hours into the Kazakh’s skating drills, his ankles began to give in to tire, unable to catch up with the man’s determination to strengthen his increasingly complicated combos. He had always been careful, pacing himself steadily through the week but each jump had become increasingly harder to land. Altin knew he had been skating on blunt skates that were practically screaming for its edges to be sharpened, but he was unwilling to leave especially when his momentum had been running steady, calls from his coach frequently drowned in his own thoughts.

BEEP

“ _Please proceed to exit the rink. The rink will be undergoing re-polishing for the next 20 minutes_ ,” the announcer repeated, forcing Otabek to slow down his momentum by the exit.

As he glided closer towards the railing by the exit, his mind was still deep in thoughts of his skating, perhaps far too deep that as he turned his blades to make a sharp halt, he heard a piercing yell and before he could look over to see, his body collided with a strong solid force that threw him backwards.

“SHIT”

His back hit the edge of the railing which had Otabek jerk his head back cursing out loud, falling to the wet ice with the body that was now entangled with his. By the time he lifted his body off person underneath him, he watched a feminine brunette figure clutching onto her ankle, crying in pain. Otabek’s left arm stung from the lacerations he got from colliding the hard ice and his back burned with pain, but all he could think of then while eyeing the girl beneath him, was “ _fuck_ ”. _Fuck_ could not even begin to summarise what he was thinking as he shoved himself away from her, eyeing the girl from head to toe in panic to find any other injury but it was clear where the problem was.

“Zlika!” the girl’s partner yelled in panic as he rushed to her side.

“Get my car keys!”

In normal circumstances, it would have not been such a serious response from everyone within the vicinity. Injury was almost part of an athlete’s career, repeated fractures and muscle injury healed after all. However, this girl, Zlika was part of an ice dance team that was going to represent the country in the upcoming Worlds which was a little under a month until it begun. Despite the panic, a check up at the doctor’s and a little bit of icing on her ankle was enough to die the tension down.

“Hmmmm,” the doctor hummed as he scanned through the X-rays of Zlika’s ankle.

Erzhan eased the tension off the girl’s back with a hand to relax her as her looked back at the doctor in question, “How does it look?”

“No fractures, just a torn ligament. The inflammation does looks a little severe. As I recall, you are an athlete, yes?” he eyed Zlika as she nodded her head nervously. “Well, you seem to have overworked your ankles quite a bit. The built-up pressure on your ankles left them susceptible to an eventual injury from even a minor fall.”

The brunette’s dark brown eyes fell to the floor in guilt.

“No need to worry though, it should heal up in time for the championships. To not further aggravate the sprain, I highly recommend that she takes a week off from any activity that involves putting any sort of pressure onto that ankle, which includes walking.” The man reached under his desk for a book and grabbed a pen from his pen holder to scribble some notes into it as he continued. “Ice it down every day, put a pillow or some sort of leverage under your leg to ease it when you go to bed, and really, rest. Since the inflammation is a little severe, I’ll be subscribing some pain killers for the pain. Take it when you need it, otherwise, there is really not much to be done.”

“Thank you, doctor,” her coach spoke in relief. Everyone there, which included Otabek and the girl’s partner were sighing in relief. They had all been in alert especially from the girl’s painful cries, which had made the fall seem much worse than it had seemed. Zlika was a hard-worker, however, she was known to be careless. Her coach had warned her before, but it seemed like she had been sneaking off on her own to work on her jumps, clearly, building up tension on her feet.

“Alright, that’s all for the miss right here,” the doctor smiled and nodded at them in dismissal as he moved onto catching Otabek’s eyes. “I understand that you were involved with the fall. Did you experience any injury from the impact besides the lacerations on your arm?”

Altin stiffened in place and eyed back and forth from the doctor to his rink mates. “Just some soreness, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“That’s good,” he smiled in dismissal.

The drive back to the rink was of a silent tension. Sure, Zlika’s sprain would heal in time and she could still compete, but not without costing them valuable preparation time. The girl cried silently into her hoodie in guilt beside Ravil, her ice dance partner who was more occupied with eyeing Otabek down with an unforgiving look rather than calm the poor girl down. They all understood that no one was to be blamed for the injury, in fact, it was Zlika who had collided into Otabek. However, Ravil’s dirty stares held Otabek’s guilt down, making sure he understood who he was pinning the blame on.

**Rink**

After settling down by the benches beside the rink, the Kazakh coach contacted the rest of the coaches to adjust the rink schedule for the team, and confirmed with the skaters present that day.

“Schedules will be printed and put up on the notice board by the entrance. We’ll be sending you a digital copy to your phones. It should be up by tomorrow morning,” Erzhan held up a paper with the schedule draft scribbled onto. “Changes apply from the following Monday and onwards. Any questions?” he paused in wait for a reply and promptly continued when there was none. “Alright then, back to practice. You three, stay behind,” clearly referring to the pair skate duo and Otabek himself.

The coach waited for the rest of the skaters to lace up their skates and return to the rink to proceed with their routines before stepping forwards towards the remaining three skaters. Zlika was slouched down in guilty silence, gripping harder onto her clutch, Ravil was of course either giving a stink eye or rolling his eyes back every chance Otabek caught him eyeing him. _Worlds is going to be a pain if I have to be in the same vicinity as him the whole championship_ , Otabek thought to himself.

“Zlika, you’re on bedrest the next 10 days, doctor’s orders. Make sure you rest well. The faster you heal, the faster you get back to practice. So don’t think too much. Ravil, you’ll be on your individual drills for the meantime. I’ll arrange for a temporary sub for you to train with.”

“I’m sorry, coach…I should’ve been more careful,” the Kazakh girl spoke in a small voice, eyes still glued to the ground.

“Yes, you should have but right now, focus on getting better. We can worry about the blame after it’s all done,” he reassured her and turned to her partner. “Send her back to the dorms, make sure she ices that ankle down. Have the rest of the day off and show up for conditioning training tomorrow. Get along now.”

Otabek watched as the scowl-faced skater help his partner up on her clutches, with their bags hung onto his free shoulder and slowly walked off to the exit. Otabek stood to attention as his coach eyed him after making sure the duo walked off safely, “Coach-“

“Here,” the tall rugged man threw what looks to be an unopened bottle of isotonic drink. He tilted his head cocked his thick eyebrows at the direction of Altin’s skates before continuing, “You’re going to wear them off by the time you skate for Worlds, Otabek.”

A long pause stretched between the two. The skater-coach relationship between them was very straightforward, neither required to speak if they found no reason to. In truth, Otabek did not know how he felt about the man at all despite having him as his coach for nearly 3 years now. The man was much different than his previous coach who was a fairly discreet individual, a majority of his characteristics reminded him of his own father. However right now, the reason for their silence was mainly because of the hint of guilt Otabek held for his rink mate’s injury, and his coach knew that well.

“There is no place for blame right now,” the man finally broke the silence, catching Otabek’s careful attention. “You’re in no position to put that on yourself and that includes Zlika. Take no mind.”

_I hardly think I can_ , Otabek thought to himself addressing the _vengeful partner_ situation. Although he held nothing against the man or questioned Erzhan’s capability as a coach, up until that day, his methods of agitating his teammates through negative reinforcement had given them every right to hold it against Otabek. It was true that the ice dance pair had improved tremendously despite the decreased amount of time they had on the rink, however, Otabek knew the girl being MIA would not be without harsh consequence.

“Well, send those off to the shop and bring in your spares next practice,” the rugged man pointed to Otabek’s skates beside him and shoves his hands deep within the pockets of his coat. “You have the next two days off, strength training and light conditioning only. Your jumps were looking a little sloppy on the landing today, so work on that stamina for now. We don’t want two national reps out for the count this this week.”

**~*~**

The following days hung onto Otabek in dread, both on a mental and of physical sense. The side of his arm and especially the centre of his back still stung in ache, reminding him of the hints of guilt he felt for his rink mate. Of course, he was aware that it was not his fault. However, he did feel empathetic for her, sharing the feeling of how important every single day of practice was for a country representative. The pressure of your country’s name on your shoulders was not something to be taken light of. Ravil was especially sure to make him notice his stare-down whenever they caught glimpses of each other.

The new training schedule had given him more slack to ensure his body had rested well and fully recovered from each session. That however, did not keep him from increasing the level of intensity to each session. The remaining free time he had was spent on occasional walks, visits to his family by the countryside, and working on his DJ station at home. Otabek preferred to keep to himself which was why he had left his home since the age of 16, so even on long days with hardly anything to do, he cherished his alone time.

This however, was not planned.

Otabek found himself sipping on a cup of Italian espresso at a nearby stereotypical coffee shop, hounded by a last-minute visit from his good old friend, Jean-Jacques Leroy. Altin sank deeper and deeper into his chair as he listened to his childhood friend chat a storm, absolutely oblivious or more accurately, living for the attention surrounding them; giggling whispers, accidental flashes from fans’ phones as they took quick shots of the two. On the usual basis, Altin would not at all be bothered by this as it had grown on him for as long as the growth of his career allowed for, he was incredibly appreciative of his fans especially the younger ones. That day however, was a horrid combination of bad luck and assholes, that grew his foul mood.

“I appreciate the visit, JJ,” the Kazakh straightened his back as he settled his cup onto the wooden table before continuing, “but could you at least warn me before you bring in a crowd with you?”

“Sorry, man. Can’t help that the King is adored by his people,” JJ shot a pleased smirk at him before laughing it off with a wave of his hand. “Alright, alright, I get it. Clearly, I caught you at a bad timing.”

Otabek’s expression softened slightly as he shifted to lean on his side, “How’s Isabella? She doing good?”

“Yeah, better than last week. It’s been a rough few weeks since her mother’s diagnosis, but she’s doing fine,” he smiled sheepishly, concern still lingered in his voice as he spoke. “Anyhow! How’s my man doing? A little bird whispered in my ear and told me that you’ve been staying lowkey from the clubs here to work on your routine. What happened to fun Altin?”

“ _Fun Altin_?” Otabek raised an eyebrow, clearly aware of what the man was trying to imply although the mocking tone was really, uncalled for. “JJ, if this is about you wanting to go hard at the clubs with me as an excuse, you can forget about it.”

“Nothing wrong with a little bit of fun to steam it all off,” the man replied, shrugging his shoulders as he leaned onto the table between them. “That aside, why the sudden change? I’ve known you for ages and the night life’s been all it was for you, well, besides our obvious career.  I’ve snuck you in and out of lord knows how many night clubs, got you in for a good record amount of DJ jobs, and hooked you up with a hell lot of hotness.”

The Kazakh boy groaned as he rolled his eyes in as much drama as his friend was exaggerating for. “For one, it’s not like I’ve quit doing music, I still work on it in my free time. Two, hooking me up is not a gateway for you to win me over, I can get by fine on my own. Three, I need to place in Worlds and I don’t mean bronze.”

“OHOHO! That’s a big declaration there,” Leroy clapped out loud, rather excitedly seeing his friend being especially riled up just even mentioning the topic, something he barely had seen. “You’ve got a lot on your plate then, Otabek. Don’t need me to tell you that competition’s going to be tough for silver, seeing as I’ll be taking gold.”

Otabek held back a laugh at his sheer blinded confidence. Jean-Jacques Leroy was a grade A _dick_ at its’ finest, as according to his favourite Russian skater, and despite the intimate years of friendship with the man, there was very little room for argument on that account. “Yeah, well, we’ll have to see about that.”

Just as the conversation stretched on further to ice hockey and their favoured teams playing this season, a chain of notification alerts went off on Otabek’s phone that was buzzing loudly against the table so much that they both had their attention shifted to it. A consistent name popped up on the smartphone screen that Otabek hoped JJ would not take notice but of course, to his despair, he did.

“Was not aware you were this well-acquainted with the Russian _kitten_ ,” Otabek swore he could almost hear a bloodcurdling thick Russian curse, 2000 miles away.

Altin gave a small smile to JJ as reached for his phone, sliding it off the table and into his palm. “Someday, he’s going to be the reason you’ll be covered in black and blue. Try not to tease him too much.”

Otabek heard him laugh, “You’re no better than me. We both know it’s amusing to watch him boil up like a tomato and explode. Kid’s got charm, I’ll give him that.”

“He hates you, you know that, right?”

Leroy sucked in a fake gasp of surprise, holding his hand to his chest. “How could you say that? Of course, he loves me. Everyone loves King JJ!”

_You can be such a dick. But I guess I’m one too_ , Otabek thought to himself, fighting off the urge to laugh at the mental image of soft pale cheeks glowing in an angry flush, veins popping up at the side of the blonde’s temples, and sun-kissed locks lightly rattled from all the shaking as he would yell out slurs. He would never admit it in front of Yuri (mainly because he would probably never speak to him again if he did), but seeing the boy riled up was guilty pleasure of his.

“Right! Back to the main reason I came to see you,” the Canadian shifted his weight to the side in his seat to reach something from the back pocket of his pants, specifically a holographic business card with the name SXV Club. Otabek eyed the card and raised an eyebrow at the man in front of him questioningly. “Otabek-“

“No,” he interjected before Leroy could continue.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Come on, man. Help your boy out here.”

“No.”

“Look, a friend of mine was supposed to do a set tonight but he got sick-“

“No.”

“You’re like, the only person I know who can!”

Otabek held a long solid stoic expression as he eyed the pleading man wondering if he had even listened to half of the things he said earlier, clearly, it had fallen of deaf ears. Running through his schedule that week from the back of his head, by definition, Otabek would have enough time for a night or two out.

That was of course, if he had excluded his own proactive regimen. Otabek was working incredibly hard this season and for the first time a long while, he was determined to come back home with nothing less than perhaps _gold_. He yearned for the glory of a thrilling competition against his friend, especially after he had taken up the challenge. Altin knew the Russian boy was fully aware of where he stood in terms of skill against his competitors, which meant a lot that he had declared such a thing to him.

Otabek rested his weight onto his elbow and rubbed the tension off his temples. He knew he was going soft on Jean when he realised he was actually contemplating to go. After all these years, it was still hard for him to say no to his childhood friend despite the countless fights he had to bail him out of. Otabek sighed out loud, “Time.”

“That’s my boy!”

**~*~**

It was hours past sunset when the skies by the central town glowed in bright neon lights and hummed with busy traffic. At first glance, one would hold onto the impression of a conservative Muslim city that stuck to a curfew of 11pm but with the right turn of an alley, one would stumble upon a steady booming nightlife that was stuck between a soviet past and a modern western influence. It had been awhile since Otabek felt the familiar thumping bass vibrating the ground, or the feeling of his favoured leather jacket hanging on his body that would grew stuffy as the club would become increasingly heated. He stood in front of the mirror of the club’s washroom, fixing up his scruffy hair that had flattened from wearing his helmet on his drive there.

It had been awhile since the last he actually handled his DJ equipment, let alone worked on music despite what he had previously told JJ. Admittedly, not being able to channel out his stress from the built-up tension from all the drills and extra training had driven him to the edge of whatever patience and tolerance he had left. So really, this last-minute job had turned out to be beneficial to him after all.

As he reached over the sink for the soap dispenser to wash off the waxy residue from teasing at his styled hair, his phone vibrated in the back pocket of his fitting denim jeans. After washing off his hands, he shook them dry and patted them onto some toilet paper, crumpling them into the trash bin before pulling his phone out. The notification read that _Yura_ had sent him a photo, which was becoming more apparent in their routinely conversations. Otabek swiped right on the notification and unlocked his phone to view what the boy was up to that day.

The image was a saved photo from Yuri’s snapchat story that read, “Am I cool enough? @otabek_altin”. Otabek’s lips curved into a warm smile at how ridiculously corny the boy looked. It was a photo of Yuri’s reflection at what looks like, a H&M changing room, judging from the incredibly well lit white room. The slim figure was standing with his weight leaned onto his left leg, dressed in a low-cut white tattered tank top underneath an oversized black Diesel Gibson leather jacket with it’s zip undone, his black matching leather boots fit nicely on his black leather jeans, golden locks pulled back into a high pony tail, hands wearing similar fingerless leather gloves with one of his hands pointed towards the mirror in a gun gesture, his other hand covering the lower half of his face with his gold-covered phone.

Clearly, the coordinate was inspired from what Otabek had worn during the Grand Prix Finals Gala Exhibition. The tanned olive-skinned boy could tell how hard Yuri was trying to imitate him and not laugh, seeing as he could see the slight curve of the Russian boy’s eyes that he would usually have whenever he cracked a smile.

To this, Otabek took the chance to take a photo of his reflection and wrote, “Cool enough for me.” Indeed, they had matched in terms of the leather jacket aside from the dark blue denim jeans that Otabek wore and a fitting dark olive shirt with a similar V cut that showed off his collar bone, a silver chain dog tag hung low on his chest, his posture mimicking Yuri’s but instead of the gun hand gesture, he held up a firm thumbs up.

As he tucked his phone back into the back pocket of his jeans, a firm chain of knocks on the toilet door caught his attention before a familiar, tall Canadian dressed in a deep red leather jacket stood by the door, holding it open. “You ready? The bouncer told me you arrived a few minutes ago. Pass up your stuff to Damien at the back of the stage and let’s grab some quick drinks.”

“Jean, you know I don’t drink when I work,” Otabek held his stoic expression and led them out of the restroom, passing across the corridor.

“Take it easy, Otabek,” JJ let out a loud laugh, reaching across Otabek’s back to rest his arm around firmly. “You’ve got a good hour to spare before your set’s up. Besides, I brought Lizzy here to loosen up a little. Entertain here a little, please? She needs the company.”

"Fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys! One chapter left, I promise. I'm almost done with it, so it shouldn't take more than a day to complete but excuse my grammar, I hadn't been able to check through it.  
> Let me know what you think! I appreciate feedback (like, seriously. brain juice is drying out at work)


	4. Can we Skype?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri wishes Otabek would Skype with him, he just wasn't ready with typing it out.  
> ~*~  
> Without a second thought, his hands started moving across his phone’s keyboard and once he had tapped on the send button, panic started to sink in. 
> 
> Yuri  
> Are you free tomorrow? Grandpa’s making Katsudon Pirozhki. I thought it would be fun to Skype while I’m helping him with it.
> 
> “AH SHIT, “ he jolted up, panickingly tapping on his phone to form some sort of explanation or dismissal because Skyping was not a thing they did or have ever done. It would be undoubtedly weird and out of place for him to ask wouldn’t it? Before he managed to successfully send in a cover line, his phone pinged in notification and Yuri almost automatically closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, cursing at how recklessly foolish he was even before looking at the response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here you go! Final chapter before we get into the juicy juicy!  
> Before you get confused, this chapter is in our dear Plisetsky’s POV and FYI the time of event is parallel to Otabek’s night out at the club.

“YURATCHKA!”

Yuri groaned, rolling his head to the back and slowed down the speeding momentum he had initially built up for his planned jump. “I’m already doing it okay! What else am I doing _wrong_?”

The Russian coach crossed his arms and held it against his chest by the railing, wrinkling his eyebrows in exasperation. “You’re leaning into your right leg too much. You’ll fall as soon as you land that jump. You’ve done quads a hundred times at the championships, why is it that you can’t even do it in practice?”

“Maybe because it’s an axel quad?” the blonde boy brought up his arms and shrugged sarcastically as he halted with a sharp turn.

“You chose to take up this jump, I’m here to guide you through the execution and make sure you don’t break a leg in the process.”

“I didn’t even get to take off yet!” Yuri objected, vigorously wiping the sweat that ran down the side of his face, stinging his left eye upon contact.

“Good, you would’ve fallen flat on your face with that sloppy form of yours,” Yakov snapped back. “I don’t understand why you’re so insistent on learning this. If that thick head of yours is planning for a last-minute change in the program and I find you attempting this in Worlds, you’re out from the next European cup.”

The blond boy scoffed out loud, “Then why did you even bother to teach me this anyways?”

“Because I know you won’t be able to land one in time for it,” Yakov blatantly said with an unchanging expression, as if it was the most obvious statement that did not even needed to be questioned.

Yuri’s eyes narrowed into an unamused glare and grunted in dismissal. “I’m taking a break,” he scoffed as he spun around and glided to the exit in built up annoyance, his coaches’ protests falling on deaf ears.

It had been weeks since the _Ice Tiger_ had declared his challenge against his… _friend_. The word still hung heavily onto his tongue, he was not used to the concept of opening up to anyone enough to call them “friends”. Despite his decent relationship with Katsuki Yuuri ( _and definitely not Viktor because he had still yet to get over the fact that he left him_ ) that grew beyond the violent bursts of anger and slurs, Yuri never really held much of an impression of Altin prior to his senior year debut. Ever since their supposed _rendezvous_ in Barcelona (according to the American tabloids), he had kept his eyes unusually focused on Otabek’s every action especially on the ice. Sure, Altin could not rival his level of difficulty and technicality when it came to combo jumps like Japan’s favoured _Katsudon_ would, but the stability and strengthened assurance that the Kazakh held throughout his program brought him to attention. If Yuri did not know himself better, he would say that he was attracted to his confidence. _Well, to his confidence in the jumps._

Shuffling through the back of his locker that sat inconveniently higher than him, he struggled feeling through his belongings trying to guess where he placed his phone at. “Fuck this. Should’ve had them shift…my locker…” he struggled, only managing to brush the tips of his fingers against what he could only guess was his phone before he felt soft long hands snake up the sides of his waist. “FOR FUCKS SAKE-“ Plisetsky jolted away and lifted his eyes to a very amused redhead.

“Did I spook you, _kitten_?” Mila laughed quietly, pulling back to give space between them for Yuri to shift forward.

Yuri hissed at the pet name, “Don’t fucking call me that, hag. It’s bad enough JJ thinks I like being called a pussy. I’d like you to not further infer that idiotic thought.”

The redhead’s lips stretched to a smirk as she held her hand up, gesturing the boy to move aside for her to reach into his locker for his phone. “Then maybe you’d like it if I called you _fairy_?” she held the phone against his hand, more than aware of his resting bitch face. “Ease up boy, I’m joking.”

Yuri snatched his phone from her hand and cocked an eyebrow at her. “Why are you even here? This is the male’s locker room, just in case you got conveniently lost.”

Mila held up a finger against her lips and bit lightly at it as they heard a shuffle of clothes in the direction of the showers. The look of horror grew in the expression of the Russian boy’s face as he realised. “Well, you could say that I was conveniently _found_.”

Before Yuri could cuss out loud, Babicheva swiftly shoved her hand over his mouth to drown out whatever insult he could throw. Yuri shuffled against her hand and yanked it away, continuing with an understandably quiet voice. “The fuck do you think you’re doing? One of these days, coach will walk in on you and your ass will be served, in the most non-sexual kind of way.”

“Relax, Yura. I was pent-up. Live a little,” she pulled her hand back and rested it on the side of her hip. “Why don’t you…you know, take the edge off? I’m sure _Beka_ would be more than happy to help.”

The boy’s face grew visibly red at her rather direct suggestion and averted his eyes from hers as he let himself fall into the bench beside them. “What are you trying to imply here?”

“Ah, must be nice to be young,” Mila sighed, holding up her clasped hands against her slightly tilted face. “Hold him down while you can, yeah? Before I steal him out of your hands,” she winked.

Yuri grunted and rolled his eyes, “You wish.”

He could not really mask his feelings of social insecurity using his angry fits and abrupt insults against the older boy, seeing the lack of reaction he was used to receive which was along the lines of distasteful remarks, glassy eyes, or pure sarcasm. Yuri had always taken comfort in being that supposed _antagonist_ , using it as an excuse to distance himself from the unfamiliar feeling of bonds of all sorts. Sure enough, Otabek had made it incredibly hard for him to play that part especially when he would find himself unconsciously grinning at the boy’s odd and emotionless captions of his ever so rare Instagram updates.

After the blonde had changed into a comfortable pair of grey sweatpants and matching Nike hoodie, he dialled in for his grandfather to pick him up from the rink. He stood by the exit of the building, fiddling on his phone to distract him from the cold. It was far too chilly to jog his way home, especially when his home was a good 5 miles away and his feet was aching from all the jumps Yakov had him do, not to forget, it was quite late into the evening and evenings in St Petersburg was not exactly safe. All he wanted to do was go home, sit by the couch beside his grandfather, sipping on hot cocoa as he checks through his notifications to look for a certain name.

 Soon enough, a familiar wheeze of a honk took Yuri’s attention from his phone. He looked up to his _Dedushka_ waving to him from inside his small old humble car, dressed in a worn-out cream coat and layered on top of a couple of sweaters. Yuri waved back with an excited smile and hurried across to climb into the car. Once in the car, he slammed his door shut and greeting the elder with a tight hug. “Thanks for coming to get me, dedushka. Sorry it was late. Coach was drilling me extra hard today with the jumps. He wouldn’t let me go home until I had my take off right!”

“And did you?” Nikolai spoke, pulling the gear stick and started driving in the direction of the main road.

The young Plisestky paused in silence as he pulled his seatbelt over and fastened it on. “No. Not yet, but I will! Soon enough. I’ll land that stupid jump better than Viktor landing his quads.”

“Boy, you should be thankful the man’s still around. He should be retiring now but instead, he’s here to make sure you land your ‘stupid’ jumps,” the man reprimanded him and reached over to scuffle the boy’s hair when he pouted. “He’s doing the best for you and I’m sure you’re doing your best too.”

“I know, I know,” Yuri sighed. “I really want to do better this time. A friend of mine is going to be competing too.”

Nikolai raised his brow and eyed him from the rear-view mirror. “The same one you’ve been spending your days on the phone with?” a bright blush crept to Yuri’s face as his grandfather continued. “Ota-….. _Beka_ , was it?”

Yuri frowned in embarrassment and grunted, “ _grandpa_ …”

“It’s good that you have a new friend. You need to get out the house more instead of being cooped up in that old house, helping this old man around.”

“Don’t say it like I’m forced to,” Yuri’s frown of embarrassment now turned into upset. “I’d rather your company over anybody else any day. You know that.”

Nikolai softened his smile. “I know, Yura. But listen to me, boy. If you’re out of town and I’m not there to see you, I’d be at ease knowing someone will be making sure you stay out of trouble.”

Yuri kept silent. Of course, he was trouble, he tried not to, well at least towards his beloved grandfather. He supposes his mother’s blood does run deep in him, a little much that he gets caught up in saying and doing things he did not mean harm.

Yuri felt his grandfather’s rough hand reach over his head to ruffle out the boy’s worry. “I don’t know a thing about figure skating. But you know what would be nice?” The boy looked over with widened eyes, least expecting of this conversation. Although he had gone on and on about his progress, competition, and winnings, it was rare for his grandfather to be the one to bring up the topic. Nikolai smiled proudly as he continued, “If my boy, Yuri Plisetsky were to skate for Russia at the Olympics.”

Something lit up inside the boy’s stomach, something he had felt once before when he skated his GPF program. “Rest assured, Dedushka. I’ll be the one leading the ice, I promise.” The Olympics was not that big of a deal in the figure skating world, not as compared to the Grand Prix or World Figure Skating Championships. However, Yuri had a different goal now, perhaps bigger than any gold medal would bring him.

**~*~**

After a lengthened 20-minute comforting hot bath, Yuri slipped into a pair of thick pyjamas, wrapped his damp hair in a towel and walked into the living room where his grandfather sunk deep in his favourite worn-out couch, watching a documentary about historical creatures with Potya curled up next to him. As the young Plisetsky walked over to the couch, he felt the cold of the weather shiver up his aching feet, and he scrambles to get the thick blanket left on the arm of the couch and piles it on his small, worn feet. He looks to his _Dedushka_ , tired rough hands holding onto a steaming cup, pointed to the other cup of hot cocoa he made and left on the coffee table for his grandson. “The heater’s giving issues all day. Looks like it’ll breakdown in a few days.”

_Well, shit. We just fixed the water heater too,_ the boy thought to himself, his thin eyebrows wrinkling into a worried frown as he held the cup up to his chest being careful not to spill. “I’ll call in someone to fix it soon. We still have some money left from the rental.”

“Don’t you worry about the small things, Yura. Your old man’s got this covered.”

“Grandpa…let me handle this please?” his glassy green eyes bore pleadingly into the elder man. “You don’t have to work anymore. I told you before, I can earn for us both.”

The elder Plisetsky clicked his tongue loudly in protest which had the boy sink further into the couch in wary. “You are young, you still have a long way to go to out-do your grandfather,” his voice, stern in a way that he hopes to ease the boy’s worry. “Now listen here, your coach Baranovskaya called in earlier. Says to pass the message on to you that class tomorrow is cancelled. See, since you won’t be doing much tomorrow, I thought I’d bring you to the grocer to buy some ingredients, so we could make your favourite Ka…Katsudon Pirozhki, was it?”

The Russian boy’s cold mouth warmed into a smile. “Lilia will skin me alive if she finds out I broke my diet.”

“Well now, we’ll just have to make sure she doesn’t,” Nikolai grinned in reply.

**PING**

Yuri’s phone that sat on his lap lit up with a notification that read “Beka sent you a photo”. The boy could feel his face warm up in excitement at the thought of his friend and unlocked his phone to see an equally corny picture of the man with the undercut posing awkwardly in a mirror. The caption read, “Cool enough for me”. _Cool enough for me_ , the boy repeated in his mind. He must have looked ridiculous, trying to hold in his smile as if it was uncool of him to be happy that his friend had replied him. What a silly thing to be embarrassed of, but the long-isolated Russian could not help it. As uncool as it sounded, he was happy, almost as happy as receiving a call from his grandfather right after his free program at the previous Grand Prix Finals.

Without a second thought, his hands started moving across his phone’s keyboard and once he had tapped on the send button, panic started to sink in.

> **Yuri**
> 
> _Are you free tomorrow? Grandpa’s making Katsudon Pirozhki. I thought it would be fun to Skype while I’m helping him with it._

“AH SHIT, “ he jolted up, panickingly tapping on his phone to form some sort of explanation or dismissal because _Skyping_ was not a thing they did or have ever done. It would be undoubtedly weird and out of place for him to ask wouldn’t it? Before he managed to successfully send in a cover line, his phone pinged in notification and Yuri almost automatically closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath, cursing at how recklessly foolish he was even before looking at the response.

“Would you stop _silently_ contemplating there? Your fidgeting is disturbing me and the little tiger here,” his grandfather spoke with a mixed tone of tire and teasing, of course, the curled-up feline meowed in agreement.

Yuri would flush and grunt in annoyance, but he was far too engrossed with the awkward situation he had placed himself in. Instead, he swiftly locked his phone, grabbed the hot cocoa from the table again, and shuffled his way to his room, shutting the door once he was in. In attempt to calm down, he took to thoroughly drying his hair while thinking deeply on how he should face the issue and once he was done, he let his aching body flop down onto his back.

The boy reached for his phone and thought, _relax Yuri, it’s just Beka_ , before unlocking the screen to see the Kazakh boy’s response.

> **Beka**
> 
> _Sure. I have a day off too, so let me know when. Can’t chat long now, working in a few minutes.  
>  Talk to you soon._

He could tell he was letting out an embarrassing noise and whether his grandfather could hear, that was the least of his concern.

As of late, the young Russian prodigy had trouble focussing in his practices and ballet classes, falls being as ever often, reckless muscle cramps were frequent as well. He was constantly bombarded with lecture after lecture from everyone around him, and as much as he would hiss at them, he would not blame them for the frustration either. His body has been changing more steadily than it had before; his voice would break and slowly deepened, his legs would grow a little longer than he would get used to, his weight followed which shifted his centre of gravity, something he was no accustomed to. How pathetic would he be to blame it on his sudden growth sprint? Of course, he had to suck it up, it was no excuse. Winners don’t give excuses.

Along the pressure of training, he had to bear the unsettling worry of his grandfather’s stunted recovery. Although the man had reassured him of his health, his medications spoke otherwise, not to forget the expenses of their housing, as consequence of Nikolai taking a few weeks off work (even hours off work had costed them). Having Yuri’s parents out of the picture was as peaceful as it was hard for the sole provider of their house, however, Nikolai was determined to build a stable life for the young Plisetsky, to ensure he would not feel at a disadvantage for not being raised by his biological parents. He was all Yuri had…needed and that really, that had been all he had known.

Yuri was under so much pressure, he just wanted to breathe for once.

**~*~**

The sun dawned into the Russian sky and for once in a long while, the creamed coated and incredibly needy cat did not have to wake either of the gentlemen from their slumber. As much as Yuri was excited about Skyping his friend, both Nikolai and his beloved Potya made sure to busy him with plentiful chores that had him running up and down the house tirelessly. To the eyes of many, the young Russian’s coaches would be considered the strictest martials in his life, however, that unknown by them, his grandfather was sterner than the both of them combined. This was probably why Yuri of all people had been able to endure the harsh training of his coaches.

“Yuratchka, are you slacking off again up there?” a deep coarse voice called out from downstairs.

“No, _dedushka_ ,” the blonde boy responded as convincingly as he could while resting his entire body on the floor by the stairs with a damp cloth in hand. He had been wiping the house down from every nook and cranny Nikolai had pointed out, all morning. His feet were nowhere near as sore as they were the day before however, his knees made it clear that they would give way if he took no breaks in between. As he rolled onto his belly and shifted towards the railing of the stairs too peek at his grandfather, a soft coated Potya rubbed against his foot, startling him. “Oh my god, Potya…you almost gave me a heart attack,” he laughed, reaching down to stroke her dusty coat.

“Give her a bath, Yura! I do not want to see dusty paw prints on my freshly mopped floor.”

Large blue orbs stared into Yuri’s eyes innocently when he grunts in exhaustion. It was going to be a battle in his bathroom again, he was sure of that and dreaded for the wounds to come. His beloved cat was for the most part, tolerant of Yuri’s rather aggressive show of affection, but she was just a beast as he was on ice when either one of the Plisetsky’s attempt to bathe her. “Can you be a good girl and not claw at me when we get you bathed?”

That was the ideal outcome Yuri had wished, however, Potya, sharing a distinct stubborn character as her owner, had proven him otherwise. The battle-scarred Yuri squatted by the shivering feline, drying her damp fur with a hairdryer set on cool, carefully running his hand (the lesser wounded one) through it to make sure it dries evenly. He cursed through the stings of the wetness that brushed over his scratches from the feisty thing. “Dammit Potya, I knew I should’ve clipped your claws first,” he let down the dryer and took out his phone to take a photo of his injured hand beside the guiltless cat. By now, it had been a habit of his of snap pictures of his beloved feline, sending them to his friend to bitch about the cute little thing.

> **Yuri**
> 
> _I’ve been wounded. Send help.  
>  Also, I’ll probably be back by 5pm from the grocer. We could Skype then. Sounds good?_

He waited for a reply, but nothing. Yuri shrugged it off as him having something to do, he did not really mind Otabek replying him late since they have grown accustomed to each other’s lengthened time of response. He could wait, after all, he would be spending quite some time at the grocer with his grandfather. Ample time for his friend to type in a reply by the time he got back.

“Yuratchka!”

Yuri stood up and ran towards his door, holding it open for his cat to be dismissed. “Yes, grandpa?”

“Come now, if you’re done! Let’s head to the grocer before all the good eggs are taken,” his grandfather yelled from below.

“Okay! Give me a minute!”

**~*~**

Skimming through the vegetable ail, Yuri was more focused in fidgeting through his phone than paying attention to his grandfather teaching him which ones to choose; snapping pictures of oddly shaped vegetation and fruits, texting back and forth to an enthusiastic conversation from Mila about a new boy she had her eyes on, and the occasionally running through his Instagram feed to catch a glimpse of a certain olive-skin young man. Rightfully enough, he came across a photo the man had last posted the previous evening. _So fucking cool_ , the boy thought to himself as he hit the double tapped onto the photo. It was a picture of presumably, Otabek’s view of the DJ station by the elevated stage with the perfect view of a deep blue-to-pink hue illuminating the crowd as they danced at the floor. Yuri was always fascinated by his friend’s double life, something he had only seen once before when he sneaked into the club he had DJ-ed in Barcelona.

“Yura,” his grandfather spoke sternly, catching attention of the now whimpered boy. “If I wanted to be efficient, I wouldn’t have brought you here, would I? Pay attention to this for once before you’re forced to learned it without me around.”

“I’m sorry, dedushka. I’ll pay attention,” Yuri whimpered, tucking the phone deep into his pocket and held onto the shopping cart with both of his hands this time.

“You’ve been all giddy these past few months over this friend of yours and while I’m happy your social life is revived, I would still like to spend time with my sweet, _attentive_ grandson,” Nikolai eyed him, holding up two carrots, gesturing him to pick one but when Yuri pointed, he set the other one down into the cart. “You’re rusty with the greens. Seems like I’ve pampered you a little too much.”

Yuri sulked and said, “At least your grandson picks out grade A quality meat like a professional.”

Nikolai laughed. “I should hope so when my blood runs in you.”

By the time they paid for their groceries and drove their way back to their house, Yuri suddenly jolted up in attention in his seat eyeing his grandfather with wide eyes, startling the man with his sudden movement. “Dedushka!”

“What? Speak, boy. Don’t give me a heart attack!”

“We forgot to buy the sauce!”

“Seems like we did,” Nikolai slowed down by the red traffic light, blinking. “Why don’t you ask your Japanese friend if he has any. He came with Viktor didn’t he?”

“Dedushka, he wouldn’t have purposely packed condiments here from Japan,” the boy crossed his arms as he spoke. “We can always go back to the grocer. It’s not too far out.”

“Nonsense! If he has any, good. This is a good chance for you to invite him over for a meal,” his grandfather added, earning an over-dramatized grunt from Yuri. “I ought to thank him and his family for housing you when you ran off for Viktor. Call the boy and Viktor over.”

_But it was supposed to be us_ , he pouted with a hinted thinking of his Skype session with his friend.

“Alright, don’t be so sour. We’ll just pack them some portion and have them on their way and we can eat without them. Does that sound better?” Nikolai said and after a short pause, Yuri agrees softly.

“I’ll text them then.”

> **Yuri**  
>  _Oi  
>  Balding crisis_
> 
> **Asshole Vitya** (Viktor)  
>  _Yuri? So kind of you to finally contact me_
> 
> **Yuri**  
>  _Yeah well, didn’t do it willingly. Anyways, is the pig with you?_
> 
> **Asshole Vitya** (Viktor)  
>  _Yuuri you mean. Yes, he’s here. We’ve just got done with the rink. What’s up?_
> 
> **Yuri**  
>  _My grandpa’s inviting you guys over for some pirozhki. That’s_ if _the Katsudon has some sort of oriental sauce in his stash_
> 
> **Asshole Vitya** (Viktor) **  
> **_Yuuri says yeah. We’ll head home to chance and come over soon then. Thanks for the thoughtful invite,_ Yurio
> 
> **Yuri**  
>  _Save it. I’ll kill you if you tell anyone. And stop fucking calling me that!_

**~*~**

An hour had passed, well, more specifically 45 minutes to be exact. Not that Yuri was keeping track of time because he would not be peeping at the clock or his phone every second her could, he was not eagerly waiting for a reply from his friend. Of course, he wouldn’t. He _would_ like to think that, but his actions were self-explanatory. As he worked through the dough with his grandfather, putting in whatever upper body strength he ever had into use, he would sneak to his phone from time to time, tapping onto the screen with his elbow to check for any notifications. None. Well, he could suppose his friend was still preoccupied. _I mean, he has a life. A fucking cool one_ , the boy thought to himself. Yuri knew was getting fidgeting in impatience and growing worry, he tried to reason with himself because of course, this was completely normal. Some days, it took them two entire days to respond to each.

As he left the dough to his grandfather to set aside for it to rise, knocks on their wooden front door echoed to the kitchen. Yuri swiftly rinsed and wiped off the excess dough from this hands with some paper towels and walked to the front door, turning the knob to reveal two unusually smiley guests.

“I never thought I’d live the day to hear you invite me over to your house for a meal,” a deep Russian voice spoke mockingly at the door.

“Viktor, please,” a tall Asian man pleaded, pushing up his glasses before addressing Yuri. “Thanks for inviting me, Yurio. I brought the Tonkatsu sauce if that’s okay. Is your grandfather in?”

Yuri held a hand on his hip and impatiently gestured for them to come in. “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen. Stop yapping and come in already.”

Viktor had seen his house before when Yakov would drop him off at his door after a late-night practice, so it was a nostalgic sight. However, it was a completely new side of Yuri’s life that Katsuki Yuuri has yet to see. If the Japanese young man had been fazed by the condition of the house, he was a rather convincing actor at it. The Plisetsky’s residence was an old school house that looked like it stuck through the great Soviet Union era. Some parts of the roof were leaking, walls were stained with age, and it clearly did not have the aesthetics of a modern living, however, the house was spotless, something Nikolai made sure of. It was a shabby, humble place Yuri proudly called as his home. The boy has never felt any feelings of shame, he was proud of his grandfather and would beat any kid (or adult) down the block to defend the elder man, and that would include his current guests if they had the _balls_ to say a thing.

After stripping themselves of their coats and hung them on the coat hanger by the entrance, they walked into the back of the kitchen, greeting the old man as he chopped through some vegetables. Nikolai looked up from the chopping board in acknowledgement. “Vitya, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you! Don’t let me remind you how upset Yura was when you ran off.”

“Dedushkaaaaaa”

“Hush boy, I will not let it go,” the elder man said in all seriousness.

The silver-haired Nikiforov coughed up a laugh when his Japanese fiancé’s desperate black eyes bore at him in guilt and worry, since of course, he was the main reason behind the man’s rebellious decision. “I should apologize for my bad influence on our Yuri. I should have taken care of him better before I left.”

Before Nikolai could mutter a reply, Yuri intervene, still holding his grudge against Viktor. “Save your breath. I went to Japan on my own accord.”

“Umm, I’m sorry, it’s really my fault,” Yuuri whispered in English, being extremely confused with the situation and unable to asses their conversation since it was a back and forth of thick Russian.

Nikolai looked to his grandson questioningly as he was not familiar of the language of a foreign land. Yuri sighed and said in Russian, “Grandpa, this is…um…my friend from Japan. His name’s Yuuri too. He can’t speak Russian yet, so we’ll translate for you.” And as an equivalent, Viktor translated the conversation to the confused Katsuki.

“Well, alright then. Nice to meet you, Yuuri,” Nikolai said as he wiped his hand on a clean towel and offered to shake the young man’s hand, for which Yuuri gladly did as nervously as he could. “Thank you for bringing in the sauce. I’m not a good cook when it comes to Asian dishes, so I do apologise in advance if it tastes far from the real thing.”

Yuuri looked over to Viktor for a translation and almost immediately, he shook his head to the elder Plisetsky. “It’s no trouble! Yuri’s given one of your Katsudon Pirozhki for me to try before, and it was really good.”

“He said you’re the best cook,” Yuri added, earning a laugh from both his grandfather and Viktor (who knew exactly what Yuuri had said). Well, it was not like he lied. By all technicality, Yuuri had liked the Pirozkhi, and since his grandfather was the cook, Yuuri would in fact, love his cooking, thus justifying his statement. At least, that was justifying in Yuri’s mind.

Nikolai patted the back of Yuuri’s back firmly, straightening out the young man’s crouch. “That’s enough of the small talk then. Yuratchka, have them seated by the couch and bring them something to drink.”

Grudgingly, Yuri lead the two men back to the living room, purposely giving them displeased noises which of course, did nothing to faze them since they had grown accustomed to Yuri’s teenage temper. The golden-haired Russian went back to the kitchen to brewed them the last tea pack left in their cabinet and then setting the tea pot and cups by the coffee table, very aware that he had left out any traces of sugar on purpose. Much to his dismay, both Yuuri and Viktor preferred their drinks bitter.

“Your grandfather is a nice man, Yurio,” Yuuri complimented after sipping onto his cup of tea. “He’s nicer than his face would let on. I was a little intimidated hahaha.”

“You’re intimidated by literally everyone,” the blond said, rolling his eyes.

“That’s the charm isn’t it?” Viktor reached over to pull him closer, comfortingly as the raven-haired man laughed nervously.

Yuuri looked at the blond boy hesitantly as if unsure to ask. “I thought you were going to live with Yakov and Lilia? Did something happen? I’m sorry if it’s rude. You don’t have to say anything.”

_Oh great, get a hint pig. I don’t want to validate your incessant worrying,_ he thought, holding a deep pause that made the man questioning regret his decision to ask. Yuri sighed in tire more than it was of annoyance, “Relax. It’s only until a week before Worlds. I just wanted to go home, simple as that.”

“I’m glad,” Yuuri smiled in relief, oblivious of Viktor’s knowing look that was directed to Yuri.

_I know. Fuck. Don’t give me that look_ , Yuri bit at his lip. It was obvious to his coaches that he had worries on his grandfather’s health and it being the main reason he wanted to stay close. He did not need unnecessary people pressing on that issue, especially Viktor, as dim-witted he might seem to look.

“How have you been? Training aside, I mean,” Yuuri asked. “It looks like Otabek and you have been doing good.”

Yuri cocked his eyebrow in question. “What does that mean?”

“It’s revelation that your social life isn’t dead without us,” Viktor added, to which Yuri had responded with a snarl.

“Don’t be alarmed, it’s just that Phichit noticed your conversations on Instagram. I think it’s great that he’s friends with you,” Yuuri reassured. “He’s a great guy.”

“Yeah, a great guy who didn’t answer my texts,” and as fast as he spoke, Yuri immediately averted his eyes, cursing at his conscious. _Fucking hell, why did I say that?,_ he was not sure how to cover that up, in fact he was taken aback by his overestimated patience towards his friend.

Just as his Japanese friend nudged at the gentleman beside him to say something, Yuri heard heavy footprints walk into the living room breathing loudly. “Come on in and help me fry the pirozhki. Viktor, you can come too and help with the packing if you want.”

And just like that, they had dropped the conversation. Yuri was more than willing to walk into the kitchen to help with the cooking, seing as he felt a creeping urge of anger and disappointment bubbling inside. It was something so small that he would be all laughs and smiles the next day, forgetting the entire incident once the Kazakh friend apologized, but right now, he was upset and was determined not to let that show.

By the time he and his beloved dedushka sent their guests off and started digging into their meal, his sulking had faded from his grandfather’s eager conversation on watching him skate at the Olympics. Nikolai was excited about the championship as his country had always been one of the leading countries in terms of performance. Well, the doping allegations was something he did not need to know of course. Yuri was elated all through the evening and lay in bed with promises of qualifying and making his dedushka proud.

Yuri took one last glance at his phone, yet still to no avail. But _it was okay_ , he told himself they would always have the chance to Skype another day. They would be seeing each other at Worlds anyways and if his grandfather’s health would let him, he would bring him there and finally introduce them. He would wait for Otabek. Surely.

 

**Yura**  
It’s okay if you’re busy. We can Skype some other time. I’ll wait.

 

His last message read.

 

 

Only, there was no more texts. No more comments or DMs on his SNS. Just unanswered messages and calls. And it led on until the World Figure Skating Championships began.

Yuri waited and waited until he didn’t have any left to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s done! Holy shit, it was harder than I thought but now that the prequel is done, we can move onto the more fast-paced rollercoaster of a ride that is Yuri and Beka’s relationship. 
> 
> The main work will be updated 2 weeks from now (work's been draining me out and I need time to make sure I write it well).  
> As always, I appreciate feedback and suggestions (cuz brain juice is quite limited).


End file.
